


Vine and Vervain

by Demus



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Florists, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally an idle musing on the kink meme, now considering writing more if anyone is interested; combination florist/barista au. </p><p>Harebell. Red catchfly. Marigold. Primrose. Shepherd's purse. Weeping willow. The language of grief is rich and coarse, raw and indomitable. John Reese stumbles upon a flower shop with a curious proprietor whose sadness seems to match his own...</p><p>(Or, 'even in a coffee shop au, Finch controls Reese's life from the moment they meet')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vine and Vervain

**Author's Note:**

> Still not sure about this one; posting to gauge interest. Let me know if you'd like more!

“I'm afraid there are no pre-made bouquets for bereavement.” 

Startled out of his introspection, John flinched, almost knocking over the little planter he'd been admiring, and whirled to face the speaker. It was the shop's proprietor, an unassuming figure whose forehead barely cleared John's shoulder. He was wearing a dark grey apron upon which the legend 'Hendricks & Finch' was scrawled in stereotypically florid typeface, and he was cradling an extravagant bouquet of flowers in his arms. A pair of large eyes peered myopically up at John through thick, plastic-framed glasses, set back from a hawkish nose and pursed, uncertain lips. “My apologies,” the florist said, his voice utterly calm. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“N- no, I-” The words stumbled on his tongue, heavy and unyielding, and uncertainty was a familiar burn in the pit of his stomach. “I'm not looking for anything in particular.”

The florist blinked. “Then I can highly recommend the harebells,” he said. He made an awkward gesture with his elbow, directing John's attention to a row of gently-nodding violet flowers, bell-shaped with their heads hung low. “They're rather fine at this time of year.”

With that, the man went back to his work; he laid his bundle of flowers down on the counter, somehow contriving to keep each stem in its exact place, and began to pluck fussily at it. John watched him for a moment, assessing ( _stiff posture, muscles clenched tight in his neck, fingers nimble but uncalloused, clothes flat to his soft, lived-in frame; not a threat_ ) then redirected his focus. The harebells continued to nod, disturbed no doubt by the low swell of the air-conditioning, and he reached out to stroke the delicate curve of a petal. He'd never bought flowers individually before. His gifts had been stuck firmly in the 'roses and tulips' rut, on the basis that he'd heard of those two types and therefore knew how to ask for them.

Jessica had always loved yellow tulips.

All of a sudden, there was a vice clamped around his throat and his vision blurred, violet shading into green, the still-dark tan of his skin clear and damning against the sweet-scented backdrop, and he forced himself to swallow, to breathe, to...

“Are you quite all right?”

The florist's voice came as a surprise; the right sort of surprise, one he could latch onto and tug against, to pull himself away from the shocking rush of grief. “Yes, thank you, I'm-”

He stopped. Silky softness whispered across his palm and he released the fist that he'd never intended to make, watching the crushed harebell flutter miserably from his grip. “Oh- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.” He turned, already patting as his pockets for his wallet, and found his gaze caught by bright blue. The other man's stare was hard, almost brazen in its appraisal, and John's shoulders itched with the need to come to sharp attention. “I don't know what I'm doing here,” he confessed in a rush, staring hopelessly at the florist. “I- My friend, she- Look, I'm sorry, I'll pay for the-”

The florist tilted his head, the flare of light across his spectacles making his eyes unreadable, and that tiny motion was enough to stem the clumsy, tumbling words. “No matter,” he said, softly, his hands still moving over the bouquet. “That one only had a day or two left anyway.”

At a loss, John continued to stare, watching the man as he began to wrap up the bouquet, unhurried and inscrutable. He worked with quiet efficiency, ignoring John's observation, and finished up by scribbling something onto a card and sliding it in amongst the blooms.

He looked up, one eyebrow creeping up by single, unsurprised millimetre. “May I ask a favour?”

John resisted the impulse to glance at the little destruction he'd wrought. “Of course.”

The florist stepped out from behind the counter, his body dipping with a limp, and offered him the flowers with a loud rustle of cellophane. “Would you drop these in at the coffee shop on the corner? I believe I may shortly owe its head barista a favour.”

Non-plussed, John reached for the bouquet. The little florist released the arrangement almost reluctantly, drawing back from John with the swiftness of a man burned, though their fingers didn't so much as brush. “My name is Finch,” he said abruptly, turning away in an obvious dismissal. “You're welcome any time.”


End file.
